erything. That is, except in one particular. On
top of each article she had noticed was a square, clean place about the
size of an envelope. There had been a note lying or pinned to each one
of the things.

It occurred to Marjorie that a man who had not noticed the dust might
have overlooked one of the notes; and she commenced a detailed and
careful search. The kodak told no tales, nor the snowshoes. The
fishing-rod was only explanatory to the extent of being too light and
small for a man, and the basket's only contents were two pieces of
oilcloth, apparently designed to keep wet plants from dripping too much.

She rose and tiptoed out into the living-room. There might be more
notes there. Her spirits had gone up, and she was laughing to herself
a little--it felt like exploring Bluebeard's castle. She investigated
the book case, shaking out every book. She ran up to the toy balcony
and even pushed out the couch there, noticing for the first time that
the balcony had curtains which could be drawn. But there was nothing
behind couch or curtains. She put her hands on the little railing and
looked down at the room below her, to see if she had missed anything.
And her eyes fell on a cupboard which was level with the wall at one
side, and had so escaped her eye heretofore. Also there was a
scrapbasket which might tell tales.

She dashed down the little stair, and made for the scrapbasket, but
Francis was more thorough than she had thought, and it was empty. She
opened the cupboard and looked in--there was a little flashlight lying
near it, and she illuminated the dark with it. There in the cupboard
lay a banjo.

"Gracious!" breathed Marjorie. "What a memory!" For she _could_ play
the banjo, and it appeared that she must have said so to Francis in
those first days. "He must have dashed home and made out lists every
night!" she concluded as she dragged it out. It was unstrung, but new
strings lay near it, coiled in their papers. And under the papers, so
like them that he had forgotten to destroy it, lay a veritable note.

"It isn't really from him to me," she thought, her heart beating
unaccountably as she sat back on her heels and tore the envelope open.
"It's from the Francis he thought he was, to the Marjorie he thought I
was."

But she read it just the same.

"For my dear little girl, if she comes true," was the superscription.

"I don't know whether you'll find this first or last, honey. But it